


Canadian-American Relations

by omphale23



Category: due South
Genre: Challenge fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-14
Updated: 2010-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:04:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray is standing in the middle of Fraser's office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Canadian-American Relations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lipstickcat](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lipstickcat).



> This is so very late for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/getturnbulllaid/profile)[**getturnbulllaid**](http://community.livejournal.com/getturnbulllaid/) deadline that it really ought to be a whole new challenge.
> 
> Bushels of thanks to [](http://mergatrude.livejournal.com/profile)[**mergatrude**](http://mergatrude.livejournal.com/), who whipped this into shape and suggested, quite rightly, that my Turnbull could use some work. Along with a host of other good ideas.

Ray is standing in the middle of Fraser's office.

He's twisted up in the leather—Sam Jones? Brown? Something like that. Somehow his fingers are wrapped up in it, and there's no way he's going to ask for help, because Turnbull's the only one around and Turnbull's already seen too much of him today. If there's anything worse than looking like an idiot in front of Turnbull, he's having a hard time thinking of it.

Plus, Turnbull's still pissed about the curling crack, and Ray's not sure he wants to get into another argument about who's got a bigger broomstick.

There's no way this...no, wait, it went on, there has to be a way to take it off. If he just wiggles a little more and...for the love of Gordie Howe, why won't this piece of crap just get off him?

Dammit. This is so not happening. Ray is _not_ thinking about getting off. He's not suddenly thinking about being tied to a chair, listening to Fraser's voice, squirming against the ropes and feeling the scratch of wool against his chest.

He's not thinking about Fraser putting that stupid hat in front of himself, and whether there might be a good reason for that. And he's not thinking about how useful all these damn straps could be, the ways that they could hold him down and tie him up and make him, you know, _do_ things.

He's really not. Thinking that.

And that's why, when Turnbull raps on the door and then sticks his head around to check on Ray's progress at turning back into a normal person, Ray's standing there with his collar undone and his arms trapped behind his back (and no, he doesn't know how that happened) and the stupid puffy pants, which are too big, unzipped and hanging from suspenders that he hasn't managed to get unclipped.

And even though he's not thinking about the way that his dick is out in the breeze and he couldn't hold the stupid hat in front of it even if he could remember where he threw it, Ray can see where Turnbull might get the wrong idea. Like he might figure that this is a chance to really beat Ray at something that matters. That sort of wrong idea, not the sort that involves his dick and...Turnbull getting ideas. Or Fraser, for that matter.

Ray was just thinking about being trapped in this uniform. That's all. Not anything else.

And of course Canadians are better at getting out of the Mountie uniform. They invented the damn thing. Probably has some sort of special 'Mock the Rude Americans' safety catch.

Turnbull's a professional, though. Just walks over and starts tugging at the straps, which tightens the damn tunic across Ray's nipples but eventually lets some circulation into his fingers. And Turnbull doesn't even look up when he kneels at Ray's feet, unlacing the boots and sliding his fingers inside the tops, pushing at Ray's knee and then pulling them off.

Funny how Ray can feel his fingers, but his arms are still too wrapped up in leather straps to move them.

When Turnbull unties the ankles of the pants—breeches—and then unbuttons the, whaddaya call them, the braces, Ray gets a little nervous.

Not all of him. His dick thinks this is a great idea. His dick is practically jumping up and down, twitching as Turnbull slips his hands up the back of Ray's legs and over his ass, grasping the back of the pants—breeches, dammit, he _knows_ that—and pulling them off. Along with Ray's boxers, and if he thought his dick was happy before, well.

Ray sucks in a breath, but he doesn't protest. He's not going to beg, because that would be admitting that something's going on. And that would mean that Turnbull won whatever this is, and that's just not going to happen.

Turnbull hesitates, like he's waiting for Ray to give in, which he will not, but after a few moments he leans back and starts unbuttoning the big gold buttons that Ray hadn't gotten to yet. Somehow Turnbull manages to pull the jacket loose without giving Ray's hands any more room to move.

Ray decides that there were some funny things about using the Sam Smith that got taught in Mountie school.

Either that, or Fraser's not the only one with a talent for knot tying.

And at the thought of Fraser, who isn't here and certainly wouldn't approve of such shenanigans, Ray's pulse speeds up and his breath catches in his throat.

It isn't right to take advantage of Turnbull, not when he's thinking of someone else, and Ray's about to say something about that when Turnbull shifts, pushes the edges of the jacket apart, and breathes out hotly on the head of Ray's dick.

Ray's ass hits the edge of the desk and he closes his eyes. He suddenly can't remember what the problem was, although in the back of his head he's thinking that this is probably how Fraser does it. If Fraser were to be inclined to give unsolicited blowjobs in his office. Which he probably isn't. But at the moment, that doesn't matter so much because Ray is a little busy.

Turnbull, it turns out, is inclined to give blowjobs, specifically to Ray, whether he asks for them or not. And Turnbull is very, very good at sucking cock. He's got one of those tongues that you read about in Penthouse, the kind that strokes up and down Ray's dick and then swirls around the head.

He's got really good lung capacity, maybe even as good as Fraser's, and Ray's reminded of why guys are better at this than women. What with the bigger mouths and the willingness to suck hard. Plus, not for nothing, but familiarity with the equipment means that they have no qualms about using enough spit.

He's not sure how long it takes, but it can't be more than a couple of minutes before Turnbull slips his fingers back behind Ray's balls, presses, and Ray's coming like...something really loud and bright and hard that he can't think of right now.

As he slumps forward, panting, he _finally_ does something to those straps and his arms fall limply onto Turnbull's shoulders. Ray's going to volunteer to return the favor, going to ask what the hell is going on, going to...going to make a mess of things, probably. Turn this into something it isn't. Sing a verse of "Oh, Canada" while pledging allegiance to cheese.

But Turnbull's standing up, backing away, and before Ray can get the words out he's standing in the middle of the room at attention.

Ray's not sure what happens next, realizes that neither of them has even said anything, but Turnbull nods at him and winks like he's won something although he really, really hasn't. He smiles as he hands over the jeans and shirt that Ray borrowed from Fraser. A moment later, Turnbull lets himself back out of the office.

Five minutes after that, Fraser walks into the room. He stops a few feet from Ray, who's put some clothes back on and is studiously avoiding looking at the desk, and sniffs the air a couple of times.

Dief whines, and Fraser glares at them both somehow. Ray's not sure there's any way to explain this, so he settles for wrapping the extra lanyard around Fraser's neck and pulling him close.

Might as well make it a double play.


End file.
